


The Nature of Virtuous Treason

by azryal, viatorix



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Religious Themes, dub-con, rape implications?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/viatorix/pseuds/viatorix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>None can deny a King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nature of Virtuous Treason

**Author's Note:**

> Azryal and I both got smashingly drunk and wrote this on tumblr. So If it feels a little disjointed, you now know the reason. 
> 
> Bold text = Azryal  
> Normal text = Rynnfox

**When Ecbert came to him it was no hardship.**  
 **He was trained.**  
 **By the best.**  
 **After all.**  
  
When Ecbert fucked him, he fucked him like he was lying. Ecbert soothed him with the soft touches of a gentle lover, then would quickly turn the tables and fuck him like an animal in heat. All the facades that were so proficiently built up would come undone in seconds. Fuck him till he’s raw and fuck him till he can’t think. Ecbert didn’t care. Not one bit. Not like Ragnar did. Ragnar would console him, Ecbert would leave him. Till the time came again when his tight hole was required.  
  
Ecbert bent him over like livestock. Ragnar clasped him like royalty. But Athelstan made his choice. Athelstan unwittingly chose this varmint life.  
  
 **And gloried in it.**  
 **He was vermin.**  
 **He was filth.**  
 **God told him.**  
  
And God would not lie to him. Ecbert had told him so. God would not lie to a King, much less than a lowly monk. So when Ecbert took him on those winter nights, in the cold bitter dark, Athelstan rejoiced. This is what he wanted. This is what he had asked for. It was simply what he deserved. Ecbert would relinquish Athelstan of his sins, and steal away the torment in his heart, and he would pray for it till Kingdom Come.  
  
 **And, though he wept, it was not for himself. It was for stolen moments of joy. The taste of honest hunger. The pain of true lust.**  
  
 **The touch of a farmer’s hand.**  
  
Ecbert came to him one night, he remembered. When the thunder roared, and Athelstan did not know if the strike was God’s hammer, or Thor’s. The rain pelted like iron nails. It was dark, and the only comfort Athelstan found was in the damp parchment of holy books and rotten scrolls. Among them, he felt at home.  
  
But so the King came. In his finery. In his valour. And he kissed Athelstan with dishonest affection, and touched him with false kindness. He laid Athelstan amongst the scrolls with deceptive honesty, yet fucked him there with genuine principle. And though it hurt, Athelstan did not scream. Only lost himself in guile ecstasy. The kind that makes you whisper of lying Gods, and plead to maleficent ones.  
  
And sometimes, sometimes after he has left; after the candle has burned low, and the wind creaks a sad song, Athelstan dreams of fire. Of furs, and of heathen grace. And sometimes… sometimes he regrets it all.  
  
 **He remembers. He dreams.**  
  
 **It would be a night terror to anyone else; his face pressed painfully into the wolf-skin and wool, hips canted up, knees spread wide and grinding against the rough English wooden floor. Athelstan recalled it.**  
  
Splinters in his knees, and brimstone on his lips, Athelstan recalled it. The soft fur on his skin, and the hard fingers on his hips. The pull and push of rhythm, and sacrilege in his ears.  
  
"You’re mine." The Christian King would murmur as he thrust like a stag, and nipped at his flesh.  
  
"I’m yours" Athelstan would return as nightmares choke on his tongue.


End file.
